


adjust the aperture once more

by whimsicalimages



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Multi, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 12:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2733308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicalimages/pseuds/whimsicalimages
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire looks dazed by Enjolras’ very presence. Combeferre understands, even though acknowledging that makes something ache in his chest in a way that he’s never wanted to examine too closely. </p><p>Alternatively: 4 times Combeferre interrupted Grantaire and Enjolras in a compromising position + 1 time he wasn't interrupting them at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	adjust the aperture once more

**Author's Note:**

  * For [infalliblefandoms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/infalliblefandoms/gifts).



> Fill for [infalliblefandoms](http://archiveofourown.org/users/infalliblefandoms)'s request for e/R/c for the [Les Mis Holiday Exchange](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/LesMiserablesHolidayExchange), title taken from Sleeping at Last's "[Aperture](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FdUhHNcuEYE)." This was really fun to write :) Hope you like it!

1

In retrospect, it’s all Combeferre’s fault, really, for officially introducing them.

He first meets Grantaire the second week of sophomore year, at a political philosophy seminar he’s just switched into; Combeferre’s staying after class to ask a question about the first project, because he believes in the doctrine of starting early and getting shit done on time. Grantaire is staying after class, it turns out, to argue with the professor about Cicero, because he’s a junior and has ceased to give a fuck.

The professor, Valjean, seems to take it in stride, arguing right back. A few minutes pass, and he turns to Combeferre. “Sorry, Mr. Combeferre,” Valjean says, looking a bit abashed. “Did you need to ask me something? I’m sure Mr. Grantaire will agree that our discussion can wait.”

“No, that’s all right,” Combeferre finds himself saying. “It’s interesting. And entertaining to watch.”

“Well, then,” Valjean says, and turns expectantly to Grantaire. “Shall we continue, or do you have class?”

Grantaire checks the clock on the wall, and makes a face. “I have to go, actually, I’ve taken up enough of your time,” he says. “Thanks, Professor!”

“Office hours are probably a better time,” Valjean replies. “Have a good day.”

Grantaire nods and gives a half-wave, moving towards the door. “Wait! Grantaire, right?” Combeferre asks.

Grantaire turns around. “Yeah, and you’re Combeferre,” he says. “I’ve seen you around with the save the world club.”

“Well,” Combeferre says. “I wouldn’t call us that, but yes. You’re invited to come join us – our meetings are Wednesdays at 9pm in the Musain. We start next week.”

Grantaire smiles. “I don’t think I’m really cut out for that gig. I just like talking,” he says. “Also, I think I’d probably make you all angry since I like arguing for the sake of arguing.”

“I think you would be a good addition,” Combeferre says.

He does. Grantaire is obviously a quick wit, and they desperately need dissenting arguments. Enjolras especially will benefit from someone to throw his logic against.

“I’ll think about it,” Grantaire says, then looks at the clock and curses. “Sorry, I have to run, I was gonna stop at my dorm to pick some stuff up. See you around, Combeferre!”

He makes it out the door this time. Valjean raises an eyebrow at Combeferre. “Recruiting period?” he asks.

“Yes, sorry,” Combeferre says. “Could I ask a question about the project?”

“Go ahead,” Valjean says, waving him on.

They talk for another few minutes, and Combeferre leaves, expecting things to be quiet. The next block of classes has already started, and the only people left wandering around the quad are usually stragglers who don’t particularly care about being late.

In fact, outside the front door, he finds Enjolras furiously apologizing while sprawled out on top of none other than Grantaire, who is on the ground under him.

Combeferre sighs and pushes up his glasses. “Grantaire, I see you’ve met Enjolras,” he says. “Enjolras, this is Grantaire. Perhaps you should get up, as I know from experience that you aren’t as light as you look.”

“Sorry, I am so sorry,” Enjolras repeats, pushing up and off, looking desperately at Combeferre for a rescue. Combeferre can only shrug at him. “I was going to meet you after your class to get coffee, but I wasn’t looking where I was going, and then I accidentally ran into Grantaire. Sorry, again, about that.”

Grantaire looks dazed by Enjolras’ very presence. Combeferre understands, even though acknowledging that makes something ache in his chest in a way that he’s never wanted to examine too closely. “Um, it’s fine,” Grantaire says. He struggles his way up to standing, and groans. “I need to, ah, get to class, though. I just – forgot my notebook in this building, I was going back for it. Wow, my brain feels terrible right now, I think I’ll just sit down for a few seconds.”

He folds neatly back to the ground, and his brow creases. “I think I might have a concussion, actually,” Grantaire says, and promptly passes out, Enjolras scrambling to catch him before he hits the cement again.

“Oh god,” Enjolras says, elegant hands carefully cradling Grantaire’s head.

Combeferre sighs again, pulls out his phone, and calls the number for campus medical emergency services.

 

2

Grantaire wakes up after fifteen terrifying seconds, not that Combeferre is counting.

“My head feels awful,” Grantaire says.

“I am so, so sorry,” Enjolras repeats.

“It’s fine, dude,” Grantaire says. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

Enjolras huffs. “Neither was I, clearly,” he says.

Grantaire rolls his eyes, then winces. “It’s fine, I’ve had a concussion once before, it just means I need to take a couple break days,” he says.

A CME team chooses that moment to arrive with an ambulance, and a few student volunteers pile out. One of them high-fives Combeferre in greeting.

“Hey, Joly,” Combeferre says.

“You know, if you wanted to see my beautiful face, you didn’t have to call the CME number,” Joly says. “Seriously, though, what’s up?”

“We’re pretty sure our – friend, Grantaire, has a concussion,” he says, gesturing at Grantaire, who is staring at them. He and Joly did the same CME training course freshman year, but Combeferre is taking extra classes this semester and doesn’t have time to take shifts.

“I’m fine,” Grantaire says indignantly. “My head just hurts.”

“You passed out for a few seconds,” Enjolras says, frowning.

Joly crouches down in front of Grantaire, pulling out a penlight and shining it at his eyes as he glares. “Reaction time is decent,” Joly says. “On a scale of one to ten, how bad does your head hurt?”

“Three-and-a-half, maybe,” Grantaire allows. “I’m seriously okay, I’ve done this before.”

“Well, we won’t be obligated to take you to the hospital if you can answer some basic questions,” Joly says. “But my advice would be to go on your own time anyway.”

Grantaire hugs his knees in a way that makes him look small. Combeferre shoves away the bizarre urge to wrap him in a blanket, as well as the urge to examine Grantaire’s forearms, which are covered in colorful tattoos. “Fire away,” Grantaire says. “I’m apparently missing class, anyway.”

“Last name, age, and student ID?”

“Grantaire, I’m twenty years old, and my ID is S-164008.”

“Graduation date and major, if you’ve declared?” Joly scribbles things down in his notepad.

“May 2016. Doubling in philosophy and fine arts, for total uselessness.”

“Can you tell me where you are right now?”

“We’re in front of Plumet Hall, where my last class was. I forgot a notebook in there, so I came back to get it.”

Joly relents. “Well, it looks like you’re not too damaged,” he says, closing his notepad. “Do you have someone to stay with you for at least the next twelve hours, and ideally until the headache goes away? You can sleep if you want, but you’ll have to be woken up every couple hours.”

“I don’t have a roommate, but–” Grantaire begins.

“I can do it,” Enjolras says. “It’s my fault in the first place.”

“I’ll come too,” Combeferre says, before the sensible part of his brain starts listing the twelve thousand reasons why that’s a terrible idea. “I don’t have class until late.”

Joly nods, gets Grantaire to sign off on a form, and herds the other CME people back into the ambulance. “Feel better,” he says. “Remember, no exercise, no aspirin, no ibuprofen. You can use Tylenol if you need to.”

“Thanks, doc,” Grantaire says.

Joly gives him a thumbs-up. “Combeferre and Enjolras, I’ll see you Wednesday night?” he asks.

“See you then,” Combeferre says. He extends a hand to Grantaire. “Slowly.”

“Yeah, yeah. If that guy’s involved, is there anyone you _haven’t_ coopted into your little gang?” Grantaire asks, but accepts the hand, leveraging himself slowly to his feet.

“It’s not a gang,” Enjolras says. “We’re an activist group.”

“Convince him later,” Combeferre says. “Grantaire, where do you live?”

Grantaire motions towards one end of the quad. “Over in Rainbow House,” he says, then raises his chin, as if expecting them to object. “You really don’t have to come with me. I’ll be fine, I won’t fall asleep for a long time or anything.”

“We really do,” Combeferre says, tone brooking no debate.

Grantaire exhales noisily. “Fine, but it’s a hovel, and don’t say I didn’t warn you. C’mon.” He starts to walk, and they follow. Grantaire is very steady on his feet for a concussed person, and ignores the shoulder that Combeferre wordlessly offers for support.

“Do you know Jean Prouvaire?” Enjolras asks. “They’re in Rainbow House, too.”

Grantaire blinks. “Yeah, um,” he says. “They’re on my floor. Jehan’s cool. They’re the one that told me about your club, been trying to convince me to go since last year.”

Quiet falls, but it isn’t uncomfortable. Combeferre rarely gets to this side of campus, since most of his classes are in the science buildings, but it’s a nice area.

Rainbow House is one of the right-off-campus residential houses owned by the University, and it’s well-loved for the massive parties that take place every month. The one time Combeferre had gone, pressganged by Courfeyrac and Bahorel, he’d been picking glitter out of places glitter should never be for days afterward, and Enjolras had looked at him like a kicked puppy when he got home for reasons still unbeknownst to Combeferre. The door takes some fiddling, but Grantaire gets the lock open and they trudge up to the second floor.

Grantaire’s bedroom isn’t a hovel, but it doesn’t look like it contains anything edible. There are two unopened wine bottles on the windowsill, but Combeferre isn’t counting those. “Enjolras, you stay here. Grantaire, I’ll get you some tea,” Combeferre decides.

“You don’t have to,” Grantaire protests, but it’s weak, so Combeferre ignores him and heads out.

The kitchen is downstairs, tea kettle on the stove. He pours water in and then busies himself looking for tea.

“Third cabinet down to the left of the fridge,” a voice says from behind him.

Combeferre smiles warmly, getting a packet. His mother would be ashamed of how accustomed he is to Lipton instead of loose-leaf, but – he’s a student. He’ll take what he can get. “Jehan,” he says, turning around. “Thank you.”

“Is R okay?” Jehan asks. “Grantaire, I mean. He texted me something about his brain hurting.”

“He’s got a concussion, but he should be fine. Probably,” Combeferre says. “Enjolras is with him right now.”

Jehan stares at him. “You left Enjolras alone with an injured person,” they say. “Enjolras, alone, with an injured Grantaire.”

“Fuck, I did,” Combeferre says, and all but bolts back upstairs.

He opens the door, only a little out of breath, and can’t help the sharp inhale. Grantaire is asleep, and one of his hands is clasped with one of Enjolras’, his light brown fingers threaded through Enjolras’ darker ones. Enjolras’ other hand ghosts over the line of Grantaire’s cheekbone.

At Combeferre’s entrance, Enjolras turns guileless eyes to him, not stopping the calm motions of his hand. Enjolras is – like that, Combeferre reminds himself. He’s easily physical, comfortable in his own body in a way that Combeferre hasn’t learned how to be yet, in a way he’s admittedly often envious of. Enjolras touches on instinct, when he senses someone needs a hug or a pat on the back or a hand to hold. Combeferre has to deliberate. He can’t just reach out.

Combeferre clears his throat and pushes his thoughts aside. “Sorry,” he says, quiet. “I’ll come back with tea.”

 

3

Shockingly enough, Grantaire does turn up for the meeting a few days later, looking hale and hearty. Less shockingly, he immediately hits it off with Joly and Bossuet, who are sharing what seems to be a thermos of rum and coke between themselves. Evidently, Joly has been forgiven for prodding him while on his CME shift.

Combeferre and Enjolras had stayed at Rainbow House on last Monday night until Grantaire booted them out after they’d woken him up every hour for twelve hours. “Menaces,” he’d said.

“I’ll see you next Wednesday? It’s our first official meeting of the year,” Enjolras had said, and Grantaire had given the tiniest nod before closing the door.

Here he is, laughing loud enough that Combeferre can hear it over the din that usually happens before Enjolras calls them to order. It’s a nice laugh, honest and deep, Combeferre thinks, and then shakes his head at himself.

Enjolras cups his hands around his mouth. “Let’s get started,” he calls, and people quieten.

“To those who are here for the first time, welcome,” Enjolras says, very clearly looking at Grantaire, though he isn’t the only one. They’ve also managed to recruit a few impressionable freshmen. “And to those who are returners, welcome back. Today, we’re going to talk about midterm elections and our next action day, which is two weekends away.”

They spiral on, and eventually Enjolras cedes the floor to Combeferre to talk about their strategy for the first canvassing day. When he finishes, things dissolve into small group conversations once more, and he goes to sit with Grantaire, knowing that Courfeyrac is watching him and probably planning something dubious.

“What did you think?” he asks.

Grantaire hums, meditative. “I think you’re all very idealistic, and I’m not sure I’m prepared to be the lone voice of reason among you,” he says.

“Being idealistic doesn’t mean we’re unreasonable,” Enjolras says from behind them. “It means we are more willing to see the possibilities.”

Grantaire shrugs. “If you say so,” he says. “I mean, voting’s great, rah-rah Democrats, but the real problems are deeper than who gets elected. We live in a heteronormative, racist, classist society, and the only thing that can change that is wide-scale public attention on those things. Maybe not even then, because Americans do love their bootstraps-capitalism.”

Grantaire leans back in his chair, and Enjolras leans forward as if pulled by a string. Neither seems to notice, but Combeferre does. “That change starts by voting,” Enjolras says. “We lose the right to complain about the system if we don’t do the most basic thing we can to impact it. It may not be large enough that it’s immediately visible, but it is doing something.”

“But in the long run, voting doesn’t matter much. As long as the majority of Congress is rich straight white cis dudes and, hell, most people in American politics in general are that, there’s no point in fighting things there, because there’s no way to win,” Grantaire says. “The deck is already stacked.”

“People can be convinced,” Enjolras says. “Most of the US isn’t that, and they can be convinced that there is a bright future if we fight for it.”

They’ve been getting closer to one another as they talk, until their noses are only a few inches apart.

Combeferre coughs, and Grantaire startles as if stung, pushing his chair back a couple feet. Though Enjolras forgets about personal space often, it’s obvious that Grantaire doesn’t. Combeferre hadn’t meant to startle him. He’d just meant – he doesn’t know what he meant. He pushes his glasses up his nose, frowning at himself.

“I have to go,” Grantaire says, standing up. “Good talk, Enjolras. Hope you can do your world-changing thing without getting killed.”

Enjolras stands up as well, and Combeferre looks away as he puts a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Won’t you come back next week?” he asks.

Grantaire smiles a tiny, crooked smile. “You don’t have to invite me back because you still feel bad about giving me a minor concussion,” he says. “After all, I don’t really believe in what you’re trying to do.”

Enjolras takes Combeferre’s hand and pulls him over. Combeferre stares at the contact point, but he shakes off his surprise and risks a glance up – Enjolras is radiant. The strength of Enjolras’ belief is so bright that it shines out of him. His hair, dyed sun-gold, has nothing on the passion that illuminates his features. “This isn’t a pity-invite. Let us convince you,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire swallows, and Combeferre sees the way his gaze has caught on their hands. You don’t understand, he wants to say. In fairness, he doesn’t understand, himself. He stays silent.

“Maybe,” Grantaire allows, and it must be good enough for Enjolras, because he nods and lets him leave.

 

4

Grantaire comes the next week, and the next, and the next. He becomes a regular fixture in the back of the Musain, sketching in a notebook and occasionally calling out comments that inevitably serve to rile Enjolras, who paces his and Combeferre’s room after, complaining. He finally has opposition.

It’s difficult for Combeferre to feel vindicated, since his eyes keep getting drawn to Grantaire’s table. To Grantaire’s sketchbook, which he doesn’t often leave open. When he does, it’s full of detailed drawings of Enjolras. Combeferre can’t begrudge him that.

The thing is – the thing is, Enjolras is a person who is made of fire. He was put into the world to create change. If anyone could prove the butterfly effect, it would be Enjolras, and Combeferre firmly believes that. He does. Enjolras is someone who creates ripples wherever he passes, whose feather-light footsteps carve the path of a born leader.

The fact that he’s also someone who accidentally knocks attractive people over and gives them concussions has been a leading cause of stress in Combeferre’s life in the past two months.

Grantaire continues to argue with Professor Valjean after their political philosophy class, and Combeferre continues to want to map every single tattoo on Grantaire’s body. With his tongue. Admittedly, _that_ desire is an unexpected variable.

He’s used to containing his attraction to Enjolras. Courfeyrac has told him since they were in high school that bottling emotions is unhealthy, and that he isn’t actually a Vulcan, and it isn’t that Combeferre took that as a challenge, exactly. It’s just that he’s very good at being friends with Enjolras; it’s what he knows how to do. He’s not going to destroy one of the most valuable links in his life by vocalizing his foolish, unrequited emotions. His plan has always been to stand at Enjolras’ side as his right hand, as a trusted confidante, but never as a lover. He’s content with that. He really, honestly is.

The only person he’s told, of course, is Courfeyrac, who is damn dependable when a secret needs to be kept. Unfortunately, Courfeyrac’s eyes had gone all sad at the confession and he’d made a comparison to _27 Dresses_ and told Combeferre that he needed to “find his James Marsden.”

Naturally, the eighth week of meetings that Grantaire comes to – once again, not that Combeferre is counting – Courfeyrac leans over into Combeferre’s space after Enjolras finishes. “Did you find your James Marsden?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows in a way he likely thinks is significant.

Combeferre rolls his eyes. “No,” he says.

“Grantaire is a hot piece of ass,” Courfeyrac says, contemplative. “I’d tap that, if he weren’t already spoken for by two of the scariest people I know. I know when to back off. Incidentally, I’m talking about you and Enjolras, in case you didn’t guess.”

“You’re talking about nothing, because what you are talking about doesn’t exist,” Combeferre says.

“So smooth, ‘Ferre,” Courfeyrac says, smirking at him. “I’m actually talking about the way both of you look at him like you want to cover him in whipped cream and then lick it off while also sending each other some seriously tragic gay vibes.”

Combeferre’s curiosity is piqued, he admits. “How do you know?” he asks.

“A gentlemen never tells,” Courfeyrac says. “Also, you guys all have a dire need to get laid. There’s hella sexual tension in this room right now.”

“Hella,” Combeferre repeats, pulling a face. “Goddamn Californians.”

“Goddamn New Yorkers,” Courfeyrac replies cheerfully. “Just because my family moved to your silly state years ago doesn’t mean I can’t respect my state’s linguistic legacy.”

“I hope to every god there is that California’s linguistic legacy goes beyond ‘hella,’” Combeferre says, dry.

“I think it’s a good one,” Courfeyrac says, but he’s gotten distracted. “I think your boys may have slunk off, by the way.”

He’s right – Enjolras and Grantaire are both missing. Combeferre sets his jaw, swallows. “They’ll be fine,” he says. “You’re right. It’ll be good for Enjolras to get laid.”

Courfeyrac runs his fingers through his hair, only messing it up more. “How can someone so intelligent be such a dumbass?” he mumbles.

Combeferre ignores the comment, still trying to walk away with his dignity. “I have to go home and study for my last exam before finals,” he says, standing up.

“How are you still having exams that aren’t finals?” Courfeyrac asks, frowning at him.

Combeferre shrugs. “Pre-med,” he replies. It tends to be the standard answer.

Courfeyrac stands as well, and envelops him in a hug. “Have a little faith, okay? Individually, you all might be unable to see past your noses, but I’m an optimist who’s retained some belief in happiness,” he says.

“Thank you, I think,” Combeferre replies.

Courfeyrac releases him. He says his goodbyes and then slogs through the drizzle to his dorm, grateful for the ridiculous lime-green rain boots that were his mother’s present for his birthday last year. They’re patterned with tiny teacups.

It’s unlikely that Enjolras will be home if he’s gone to talk to Grantaire. Combeferre refuses to think of what they could be doing other than talking, because he doesn’t want to know. He wants to pretend everything is fine, because that pretense is mostly what allows him to function as a normal human being who isn’t harboring any secret feelings.

He turns the key in the lock and opens the door, shucking his coat off. He notices when he flicks on the lights – Enjolras and Grantaire are in Enjolras’ bed, both staring at him. Grantaire’s shirt is gone and his tattoos are more extensive than Combeferre had assumed and he maybe feels a bit lightheaded. Enjolras has a hickey, a darker spot bruising his already-dark skin. Combeferre’s mouth is very dry. He’d laugh at their twin deer-in-headlights faces, but there’s nothing particularly funny about it right now.

“Right,” Combeferre announces. “I am going to back out of this room, and go make myself tea. Feel free to, you know, do – whatever it is you want to do. I’ll be back in two hours.”

He backs out and shuts the door quietly behind himself, before sinking to the floor against the wall and burying his head in his hands, breathing very carefully and unsuccessfully trying to push down the ache in his chest.

 

+1

He doesn’t know how much time passes, but he makes himself get up and go down to the kitchen. He makes three cups of tea in quick succession, and doesn’t drink any of them. When those go cold, he makes another one, which goes cold as well after he spends too long staring at the walls. They’re a kind of off-white color that generally indicates that they were snow-white a long time ago.

When Combeferre was little, his mother always made him tea. If he was sick, he’d get green tea with honey and lemon. In the morning, with breakfast, he’d get whatever black tea was in the cabinet. At night, before going to sleep, he’d get raspberry tea that smelled of potpourri more than anything else.

He’s pretty sure there’s no assigned tea for the scenario where he’s in love with two of his friends who are both in love with each other and not him.

There’s one thing to do at this point, and so he does it – he picks up the backpack he hadn’t managed to ditch in his and Enjolras’ room, and he makes his way across campus to Courfeyrac’s dorm.

“Oh, honey,” Courfeyrac says when he opens his door. “I’ve got brownies. They don’t even have pot in them.”

“Pot might be a good choice, at this point,” Combeferre admits. Courfeyrac looks stricken, so he amends, “But any brownie is a good brownie.”

“That is most certainly false,” Courfeyrac replies, going on about the blasphemy of box-mix brownies as Combeferre sits down on the couch, trying to calculate how long he can feasibly stay here. He thinks he’s left enough clothes at Courfeyrac’s over the course of the semester so far to last a week and a half, maybe, but Enjolras will come looking for him before then. He’s going to apologize and look at Combeferre with sad eyes and Combeferre won’t be able to resist forgiving him because he’s a weak, weak man.

“Don’t look so down,” Courfeyrac says, throwing an arm around his shoulders and using the other to balance a plate of brownies. “It took me and Marius and Cosette all of freshman year to figure our shit out.”

“There’s no shit to figure out, Courf,” Combeferre says, tired. “I’m not going to intrude on their – whatever it is, just because I have what you would incorrectly call a malnourished emotional landscape.”

“I swear, if you say you want to get rid of all human feelings again, I am going to make you rewatch _The Motion Picture_.”

“You wouldn’t,” Combeferre says.

“Try me,” Courfeyrac says.

By Day 3 of what Courfeyrac is calling his “random act of charity for the decade,” which mostly entails warding off visits and phone calls from Enjolras and possibly Grantaire, they do watch it. Courfeyrac insists that though all else may fade, _Star Trek_ is forever. Combeferre regrets the decision at the thirty-second mark of the first too-long sequence of the starship _Enterprise_ floating majestically through space, but by then they’ve already begun.

“This was a terrible idea,” Courfeyrac says through a mouthful of three-day-old brownie. The _Enterprise_ looms against its green-screened background.

“Yes,” Combeferre agrees.

“Why did you let me do this?” Courfeyrac asks. “Don’t answer that.”

It takes Combeferre half a second to realize he’s talking about the knocking at the door that just started and not his own question.

“I have to face them sometime,” Combeferre says. “It may as well be now.”

“What happened to Combeferre, Mr. I’m-going-to-hide-forever-behind-my-one-best-friend-from-my-other-best-friend?” Courfeyrac asks, crossing his arms, petulant.

“He decided he couldn’t do that because forever is long,” Combeferre responds. “I’ll get the door.”

Courfeyrac peers at him, flinty, and must see something in his face, because he waves him on. Combeferre takes a deep breath and lets it out, goes to the door. He’s had three days to think through things rationally, and it makes sense why Enjolras and Grantaire would choose one another. They’re complementary. He’s not so selfish that he thinks his happiness is more important than theirs.

He pulls open the door and finds both Enjolras and Grantaire in front of him, standing too close and looking at each other with the kind of terrifying intensity that marks couples that are so in tune that they’re practically telepathic.

“I’ll go back inside,” he says, cringing immediately at his own sharp tone as they both turn to him.

“No!” Enjolras says, making an aborted hand gesture towards him.

“Let us explain,” Grantaire says. He’s holding Enjolras’ other hand.

“I think I’m okay, actually,” Combeferre manages.

“No, just – listen,” Enjolras says. “I had a whole speech prepared, but Grantaire didn’t let me bring it. He said we should skip to the point.”

Combeferre smiles rather helplessly. He can imagine that conversation. “What’s the point, then?” he asks.

“Well, we, ah – I don’t know how to phrase this,” Enjolras says, words trailing into a mutter.

Grantaire sighs, steps forward, and says, “I’m going to kiss you now, so y’know, hit me if you don’t want me to.” When Combeferre can only stand there with his mouth open, feeling like someone’s tilted the world under his feet, Grantaire puts a gentle hand on his neck. “Okay?” Grantaire whispers.

Combeferre can only manage a nod, but then Grantaire is kissing him, and Grantaire is a very good kisser. Combeferre thinks dazedly that maybe he’s taken a class. This kiss tells him that he’s been going about the whole kissing business wrong – Grantaire kisses like it’s an art unto itself, and Combeferre tries to give back as much, but he suspects he falls short. Grantaire telegraphs desire with his lips, soft and intent against Combeferre’s own before drawing back after one last tiny press.

Combeferre has totally lost track of the moments that have passed. His internal clock has become unreliable. He’s off-balance. “What,” he says.

Enjolras looks at both of them, and the only word to describe his expression is _hunger_. His eyes are half-lidded and his breath is coming quicker than usual, small puffs escaping into the cold early-December air. He tugs Grantaire to himself and presses their lips together, hard and brief, before pulling Combeferre in. “I’m also going to kiss you now, all right?” he asks.

Combeferre thinks that the sound that comes out of his mouth could reasonably be called a whimper, but he’s not about to admit it out loud. “Yes,” he says. Christ.

Enjolras, of course, kisses like it’s a battle to be won – like it’s a challenge. He coaxes Combeferre’s mouth open and licks in, tasting like coffee. Combeferre thinks he might be dreaming, but this doesn’t happen even in his best dreams. Does this type of thing happen to real people? Did Courfeyrac lie about there being pot in those brownies? Enjolras’ lips are warm and feel real enough. Combeferre can smell his aftershave. Sensory data points to this being more than a figment of his imagination, though it’s exceedingly difficult to think with a hand on his neck, a thumb sweeping across his jaw. Enjolras sucks at his lower lip, biting down and drawing another whimper out of Combeferre, before withdrawing.

“Do you get it now?” he asks, lips swollen.

“I think I’m starting to,” Combeferre says. “Can you clarify?”

“We,” Grantaire says, making a hand gesture which apparently encompasses him and Enjolras, “want to date you.”

“And anything that accompanies said dating, like kissing, and sex,” Enjolras says. “Personally, I want those too, though of course it’s fine if you don’t. I’ve wanted to hold you for the longest time, ‘Ferre, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Combeferre can’t stop himself – he bursts out laughing. The dismayed looks on both their faces only make him laugh harder. “I can’t believe this,” he manages at last. “I spent all of last year pining after you, Enjolras. All of last year! The crush on Grantaire completely broadsided me. And now this is happening. I can’t believe it. Couldn’t have come a bit sooner?”

“Is that a yes?” Grantaire ventures.

“Jesus, yes, of course it’s a yes,” Combeferre says, and grins hugely as Grantaire and Enjolras press kisses to both his cheeks from either side, chest blooming with warmth.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and happy holidays ♥


End file.
